


Passing

by Jaybee65



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Gen, fanfic100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-26
Updated: 2007-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone cheats on tests sometimes.  Even Madeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing

Traffic is heavy and the weather is bad, so the driver concentrates on the highway. In the forty minutes since they left the airport, he hasn't glanced even once into the rear seat. To test his reaction, Madeline makes a point of fussing with her purse. Will the noise and activity attract his attention? She rummages inside and snaps the clasp shut loudly. Nothing.

It's probably safe. Or as safe as it's going to be.

She lets a few moments pass, then reaches to the floor and opens the purse again. This time, instead of lipstick and a mirror, she removes a syringe and vial. She has to be quick and discreet, but she's good at that. Lots of practice makes it easy.

She draws the liquid from the vial, hikes up her skirt a few inches, and jabs the syringe into her thigh. It stings as she depresses the plunger.

Done. She hides the empty syringe and vial under the seat for retrieval later, then settles back against the leather upholstery to watch the rain smear the bulletproof windows.

***

The entrance to Oversight has three security checkpoints. First, stern-faced men with dogs and hand-held mirrors inspect the underside of the car for explosives before they descend into the garage. Next, at the glass-enclosed elevator lobby, she offers a palmprint and hands over her coat, purse, and gun to the guard. Once on Level 12, she stops at a kiosk for an automated retinal scan; the polished steel doors slide open and admit her to Reception.

"Good morning, madame," says the receptionist from his perch behind the desk.

"Good morning, Yves." She's made a point of remembering his name from the year before. She never omits these small gestures of courtesy, particularly with someone who might become an informant someday.

Yves gives her a smile and waves toward a chair. "Have a seat, please. They'll call for you in a moment."

"Thank you." She's about to sit when she sees a figure approaching from a nearby corridor. George.

"Why, Madeline," says George, and he kisses her cheek in his customary greeting. He smells of whatever aftershave it is that men of his age and income stratum wear: something nautical-themed, perhaps, with heavy overtones intended to convey resilience and virility but which in reality evoke mothballs. Or embalming fluid.

Regardless of what the ingredients may be, the scent is too intimate, a reminder that underneath the staid jacket and tie is frail human flesh. Every time she smells it she imagines, with Pavlovian irresistibility, what it would be like to slit his throat with a razor as he kisses her, to watch the shock on his face and feel the spray from his jugular drench her hair and clothing as she lets him fall, convulsing, to the floor.

The visualization enables her to smile warmly, as always. "So good to see you, George."

He pretends to be surprised to see her, and she pretends to believe him. "What brings you here today?" he asks, as if he doesn't know.

"It's time for my annual psych screening."

"Ah, yes." He nods knowingly, then indulges in one of those dramatic pauses that he's so overly fond of. "I hope it goes well. Then again, you have to cope with so many things. An impossible schedule, a lack of resources and manpower at One, a rather difficult commander. You face almost superhuman demands. It takes its toll, doesn't it?"

It's a threat. Or a warning. Or a taunt. Or some combination of the three. She can't tell, but it doesn't really matter. She can feel the drug circulating through her bloodstream now, wrapping around and around her mind like soft, cushioning gauze, and she no longer cares about anything. Least of all George.

"It's all in the line of duty," she replies with bland indifference, and she sees his face fall.

***

There's a new psychologist this year. Dr. Wright, "but you can call me Dan," he says with a grin that shows his dimples. He looks about ten years younger than she, and he's from the chatty, sweater-wearing school of feel-good therapists. She would find him loathsome, except that it isn't worth the trouble of bothering to form an opinion of him at all. Instead, she decides to be charming, and so she laughs at his jokes and leans in a little closer to him than is entirely clinical.

They proceed swiftly through the objective and subjective tests. Afterwards, he winks. "That was easy, wasn't it? But you do this for a living. I bet you can play the results like a concert pianist."

She forces a chuckle. "You flatter me."

"Not at all." He opens a cabinet door and begins to remove some medical equipment. "This next portion of the test will be a little harder to manipulate, though. Not that I'm accusing you of any such thing, of course."

"Of course not," she says.

He holds her gaze far longer than necessary. It's supposed to establish his authority, to warn her that she can't hide anything from him, but all it does is reveal how very little he really knows. If she had the energy, she'd be amused. All she does now, however, is give him what he wants: she breaks off their mutual stare first, glancing quickly at the floor.

Satisfied, he seats himself on a rolling stool and wheels himself over next to her. He takes her arm, pushes up her sleeve, and fastens a blood pressure monitor to her wrist and fingers. He switches it on, and she feels it clench and release, hissing rhythmically. Next, he attaches a series of microsensors along her skin -- at the temple, the ankle, the neck, the chest.

For the next thirty minutes, she solves puzzles under increasingly rapid time constraints, interrupted by random noise and flashing lights. None of it distracts her in the least. She coasts through it all on a shining road of chemically-induced clarity. If anything, she's bored. Except no, she doesn't really feel that, either.

She finishes the final question and waits. Dan sits quietly, frowning in concentration as he reads the data on his computer screen. Finally, he blinks, shakes his head, and returns to her side to detach the microsensors.

"You know, I'd heard about your reputation, but I thought it must have been exaggerated. I see it wasn't." The amazement is apparent in his voice. "You're the calmest subject I've ever tested." He finishes unstrapping the blood pressure monitor, and she flexes her fingers as the blood begins to flow freely again. "What's your secret?" he asks, and he sounds sincere. A tiny bit jealous, even.

She runs her hand over her thigh as she rises to her feet. There's a twinge at the injection site. "Meditation," she replies with a smile. At his questioning look, she adds, "I studied at a temple in Japan years ago. They taught me a few techniques."

***

Back in the car on the way to the airport, she retrieves the syringe and vial and puts them back in her purse. She leans back and closes her eyes in relief.

It's over. But not really.

The day before, at Section One, she had administered the same tests to herself -- without the benefit of sedation. The results disheartened but didn't surprise her: statistically significant deviation from the baseline in three separate categories. Diagnosis: unfit for duty.

It's unfortunate news. But she'll cope with it somehow. She can self-medicate. Cover up mistakes. Pass the blame to others, if things get dire enough. All she needs is time to get past what she's certain is a temporary affliction. She'll overcome it, by sheer force of will if nothing else, because she has no other choice. Because failure -- in this -- means not only death, but disgrace. The former is acceptable; the latter, unbearable.

No one else need know. Not Paul. Not her subordinates. Especially not George and Oversight.

After all, she passed _their_ test. Even if she had to cheat.


End file.
